The Night Markets glittered beneath the moonlight like tears, like stars, like gemstones in a crooked crown welcoming Acton home.
For a long moment he only stood in the darkness, an autumn wind running fingers through his hair, carrying the scents of smoke and spice, perfume and incense. It was so achingly familiar that he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and berated himself as the worst kind of fool for ever thinking he could leave this behind. This was home. No king, no girl, no gods could change that. Each winding alleyway and crooked street (and grimy bar) was as familiar to him as the black spots freckling his skin. And Acton knew that –
Yank.
The buckskin’s eyes flew open, his ears already pinning, a hind leg readying to kick whoever had dared to pull hard on his tail. But when he glanced back, there was nothing there – until a bright streak darted between his legs and sat up in front of him like a cat, neat rows of teeth showing in a very satisfied grin.
It was not a cat. It was nothing that Acton had ever seen, except for one version that was much, much larger.
“The hell are you?” he said, but the magician couldn’t stay angry; already his ears were back forward, and he lowered his head to huff a breath at the miniature dragon, moonlight-blue and nearly glowing in the dim. In response it flicked its tongue at him, and then sneezed: a tiny plume of flame that singed a few of Acton’s whiskers. He drew back very swiftly, and with newfound appreciation. “Careful, buddy. You’re cute, which is lucky for you.”
The dragon only considered him, and he sat back a little on his heels, considering him back. It seemed not everyone had made themselves scarce after the Big Dragon had been set up as a guard. Slowly a little crooked grin bloomed on Acton’s mouth, and with a bit of concentration he conjured up another dragon, blue as a sapphire, which snapped its tiny jaws at the first.
The true dragon cocked his head and lashed his tail, then pounced at the imposter. But of course its claws closed on nothing, and it went rolling on the glittering pavement to the sound of Acton’s laughter. When it sprang up again, it was to stare at something just beyond the buckskin – and then it fled into the shadows beneath an empty stall.
Acton turned and his matchlight gaze fell on a mare the color of moonlight and shadow, with antlers a neat arch. He remembered her from that awful day – but he’d never known her name.
Still, he tilted his head toward her, a slanting sort of nod, and his grin did not waver. “’Lo,” he said. “Nice night, eh?”
The pygmy dragons were mischievous, and Jezanna was careful to not let them get too close to her ivory silk sash, knowing they would more than happily run off with it if she wore it too loose. Regardless, little creatures of every colour bounded between stalls, jumping across backs, and more than one found they liked to use her antlers as a perch. The midnight woman could not help but smile with their antics, reveling in the life that had come to the markets since their arrival. This place was a thing of beauty she could never forget.
She swung her head around at the spoken greeting, eyes of silver landing on a faintly familiar form the color of fire and soot. There was a spark of recognition in her gaze as it fluttered over the extension of his neck, the grin shaping his lips, and she was drawn back to the meeting that had all but torn the court apart. He had been there, standing tall and wielding words like knives. Jezanna remembered the accusations he had claimed, and the ones spoken against him, but she had not seen him since then. She can only imagine he must have left with the reminder of dragon fire pushing him along the way.
“Hello,” Jezanna said at last, returning the greeting with a gentle smile, dipping her head slightly as she glanced around. “It is more beautiful a night than these streets have seen in many weeks.” The truth lingered like a fog, brushing across their legs. These streets had turned into courtroom and a jail cell, had been abandoned and emptied. Perhaps now than the gates were open once more things would change. Just maybe, they would improve in time. “It’s Acton, yes?” she had an affinity for names, and recalled that his had been spoken once in derisiveness during that meeting.
"Speaking."
@Acton aahh it's not great but I'm excited to finally do this thread!
She belonged in the Night Court, he thought, from her colors to the curve of antlers to the sash that seemed to drift behind her like gauze, like moonlight. The mare looked at home here, beneath the glow of the full moon, and by some strange alchemy that was enough to smooth away what rough edges of his nerves remained.
He did not waver before the recognition in her gaze – instead he basked in it, though that was half an act. Acton couldn’t guess what she might think of him – certainly that meeting was far from the first time his mouth might have made him a fool – but there was a guilt in his belly, like a heavy, small stone, and the weight of it increased when she spoke.
All her words did was remind him that he’d run. Seraphina’s judgment echoed in his memory (what little he could remember of it, as drunk as he’d been) and a shadow passed over his laughing mouth.
To cover the falter he cast his glance aside, looking over the rows of stalls with their bright scarves and countless wares as if weighing her words. It wasn’t until he heard his name that he looked back, meeting the strange starlight of her eyes, and ducked his head in a showman’s bow. Forgotten behind him, the illusion-dragon flickered and vanished like smoke.
“None other,” he said (almost there was a bite behind the words), then narrowed the space between them, his gaze softening into curiosity. “I remember you, though I’m not sure I ever had your name.”
Ah, more questions than her name pressed against his teeth, weighed down his tongue - how was it, what happened, did they ever explain further? but not even he dared to speak them.
He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, not on a night that was so fine.
@Jezanna <3 I'm still trying to find his groove again but I have faith in us
There was a fleeting gloom that passed over Acton's features, there and then gone, and he looked away. Her eyes followed his, momentarily, but then she could not help but to look at him again, to study the lines of his face. She wondered what drew him back, but then she thought that if Denocte was his home, he would always return to it.
When his eyes met hers again she smiled a soft, whispering smile. One that did not judge him for what he'd done but accepted that he was here and there was always time to do better. His words were subtly sharp, like a knife you didn't expect to cut you, but when you looked down you were bleeding. Why, then, did he bleed? When Acton stepped closer, she didn't move away. There was no danger in him, no fear in her.
"Jezanna," she offered unreluctantly, "So few, I think, have had my name." And she found it was true. It was only a handful who had ever heard it spoken off her tongue, from her lips, and she could see each of their faces in her mind. The midnight woman was the dark side of the moon; mystery and intrigue. Perhaps she suited these shadowed streets too much, blended too well with the moon glow on the cobblestone. Perhaps.
"What are you searching for, Acton?" An assumption, for maybe he sought nothing. But weren't they all searching? For something that made their hearts race, eased their fears, brought them peace. If she had learned anything it was that the night gave security, a measure of freedom, and this place of star shine and wood smoke was no different. And Jezanna was all the curiosity of a child with all the temperance that came with years of living. She would not push despite her yearning to know, discover, uncover.
In his volatile world, Acton had never had much of a relationship with steady things. All of the Crows had been like him, in one way or the other – each teetering on some different edge, fuses that needed little encouragement to light.
He was unused to the kind of deep calm of someone like Jezanna, a weighty peace that he could feel tugging like gravity. The stallion was not wholly sure what to make of it – once, not so long ago, he might have scoffed at it. Now…
“Seems like a good time to change that,” he answered, indicating the markets around them with a flick of his ear. “Lots of new leaves turning over lately.” Of course there was the unspoken weight that pressed his words into something near sardonic – leaders missing, gods returned – but the movement of another of the little dragons caught his eye, and at the tail end of his words his lips crooked into a smile as he watched it.
They, at least, seemed to prefer the changes – and he liked them a helluva lot bigger than the overgrown cousin of theirs he’d met.
At her question he glanced at her again, startled anew by the paleness of her eyes, which glowed like marsh-lights, like moonlight on fog. There was the immediate temptation to answer her flippantly, and almost he let something snide or joking slip from the tip of his tongue – but then his mouth drew a thoughtful line.
“Home, I guess. To see what’s left of it.” He did not just mean the city around them, which was much unchanged –
but the Crows, and Reichenbach, who had been home almost as much as any place was. With them gone, where did he fit?
It felt strange to tell a truth to a stranger, especially one that made him feel so vulnerable, so boyishly foolish and borderline naïve. New leaves, he supposed.
“How about you? Looking for anything you can’t find from a vendor?” There was little her strange gaze gave away, but he searched her features anyway, and wondered what similarities two Denoctians so different could have between themselves.
